The Brit and the Patriot
by CaptainStormChaser
Summary: Revolutionary War AU. Arthur Kirkland, a British soldier, is fatally injured in combat. Then a man, a hero, saves his life and shelters him. But that proves to be difficult, what with French and Spanish delegates staying in his manor. Now they must deal with hateful older brothers, German mercenaries, and their growing feelings for each other. UsUk Franada Spamano GerIt PruHun.
1. Chapter 1

**The Brit and the Patriot**

**Summery**: Arthur Kirkland is a British soldier, following his brothers' footsteps into the ranks of the military in a quest to halt the rebellion in the colonies. But when his life is saved by a mysterious statesman, he begins to questions his loyalties.

Rated T for language, suggestiveness, and violence.  
May change rating to M.

**Pairings**: UsUk (America x England), Franada (France x Canada), Spamano (Spain x Romano), GerIt (Germany x Italy), PruHun (Prussia x Hungary), and a hint of Scotland x Ireland.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia. All rights go to Hidekaz Himaruya, the great genius he is. I will probably never own Hetalia, and let this disclaimer suffice for this entire story. I own only the interpretation of this historic event. Let me put it this way; If I ever own Hetalia, I'll let you know. Until then, **DISCLAIMED!**

**A/N:** Welcome, my lovelies. Apparently, every single year in Social Studies, we have to cover the Revolutionary War. Then this little plot bunny popped up when we were going over all the countries that were involved in the war (like me, France). Naturally, some of my cosplay friends (Russia and Turkey) and I all started laughing at our poor, confused teacher after he said that France, the Dutch Republic, and Spain didn't like Great Britain and were glad to help America. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter One**

Arthur ran as fast as his legs would carry him, bullets whistling past him in waves. _It wasn't supposed to happen like this._ He thought frantically, taking cover behind a tree. _This was supposed to be an easy victory. They weren't supposed to know we were coming this way._

Regardless of the information they had been given, Arthur's regiment had been ambushed.

He ducked behind a tree, his heart beating profusely. The canons fired, making him jump. A reddened bead of sweat worked its way down his forehead and landed on the back of his hand, alerting him to his head wound. He pressed his palm to his temple, warm wetness meeting his cold hand.

He tried desperately to calm his breathing. As it was, he was gasping and panting for air. Resting his head back on the oak, he closed his eyes for a moment. Another round of gunfire jerked him back to reality, and he risked a careful look past the tree.

More bodies littered the ground, and the sight of them turned Arthur's blood cold with a guilty shame. Those men had given their lives, no questions asked, out of loyalty to their king, while Arthur had cowered and hid in an effort to preserve his own.

Quickly thinking, Arthur turned his body around the trunk of the tree, leveled his musket. Taking only a moment's hesitation to aim, Arthur pulled back the flintlock, and squeezed the trigger. A puff of black smoke erupted, and a musket ball sailed towards the line of Patriot soldiers. Not a single one of the men so much as flinched when the projectile missed them completely, flying between ducked heads.

"Damn!" The Brit swore in whisper to himself, wasting no time before ducking back and beginning to reload. He brought a paper cartridge from the inside of his jacket to his mouth, using his teeth to rip it open. Within seconds, the Brown Bess was balanced vertically, resting on the tree's roots and in the crook of Arthur's elbow. The pan was primed and set on the end of the barrel, powder poured into it. Arthur ran the pads of his fingers over the lead orb, then shoved it in and finished reloading.

The entire process took about twenty seconds, followed by a second shot at the enemies. That was his undoing.

One soldier noticed through the thick haze a scarlet coat, trying to conceal itself. He raised his own weapon and fired, barely catching the hidden assailant.

Arthur was forced backwards by the force of the shot, falling to the ground. Fight-or-flight instinct finally realized it would have no luck with the former, and tried the latter.

The blond tore through the woods, musket held against his chest. His right side was bleeding heavily, eventually causing him to slow. In the distance, he saw a light. Light promised warmth, promised help. He moved towards it, eventually having to crawl. Collapsing at the back of a manor, Arthur tried to cry out, succeeding only in moving his dry lips.

He wanted to move closer to the light, but it was too hard. Now its welcoming glow taunted him, begging him to join it. _Why won't the light just shut up?_ he asked himself in vain. _It's a silly thing, to ask oneself a question._ Arthur decided. _If you don't know the answer, you can hardly hope to answer correctly._

* * *

Madeline flitted about the parlor, straightening something there or adjusting something here. Alfred watched her, seeing no sense in trying to perfect a perfect room.

"Maddie, what are you doing that for? I doubt he'll care how much the doilies are turned." But his insistence that there was no point to it was dismissed with a small wave of his wife's hand.

"Alfred, how can we expect a guest who is doing so much for us stay somewhere less than magnificent?" She asked in a soft voice.

Before Alfred could think of a reply, however, the butler stepped quietly into the room. "The captain is here, sir." He said with a bow.

"Thank you, Toris." Alfred said, rising from his chair.

Leaving Madeline to finish her frantic fixing of the room, Alfred walked to the front door of their home and Toris opened it, revealing a man with shoulder-length wavy blond hair dressed in the blue and white uniform of a French officer, hat under his arm.

"Capitaine Francis Bonnefoy II, at your service, Monsieur Jones." The captain said with a flamboyant arm gesture and bow. "I thank you for allowing me to reside in your lovely home."

"The pleasure is all mine. Please come inside."

The Frenchman stepped in, Toris closing the door behind him.

"Toris, please tell us when dinner is ready." Alfred instructed, hearing a gentle hum in reply.

They walked to the parlor, where Madeline was fiddling with the ornaments on the mantle.

Alfred cleared his throat, almost making her jump, and she backed away from the fireplace and tried to compose herself.

"Capitaine, this is my wife, Maddie." Alfred introduced.

"It is wonderful to meet such an exquisite creature, Madame Jones."

"Welcome to our home, Capitaine Bonnefoy." She said as he took her hand and kissed the knuckle of her middle finger, making a blush rise to her cheeks. He released her hand delicately, as one would a butterfly.

"Well, I'm going to go take care of some important business." Alfred said, turning on his heel and leaving the two alone.

'Important business', as it turned out, was merely Alfred's excuse to get some fresh air outside. He walked around the back of the house, contemplating a stroll through the woods.

Well, a walk would burn some of his energy and allow him to focus better through dinner with the captain, therefore it _was_ important. He took a few steps into the dim trees, when he heard a sound. A moan of pain, a noise of someone requiring assistance.

Alfred moved towards the sound as quick as he could, and was rewarded with the sight of something bright red. A man lay sprawled out on the ground, bleeding from his side and head. Without so much as a second thought, Alfred set about staunching the flow of blood. The man's shirt was soon ripped into strips, which were tied around his head and lower torso.

Somehow he seemed out of place, a nearly shirtless man just laying inside of a red coat. That's what set the gears in Alfred's mind in motion.

Red coat.

Redcoat.

British.

The enemy.

But there was no time for such notions. This man's life was in danger.

First and foremost, this man needed shelter. Glancing back to the house, Alfred checked that off in his mind. Scanning around a little more, he saw his opportunity in the stable. He hoisted the short Brit into his arms, carrying him to the small structure. At the end of the stable was a large pile of hay in a blocked-off segment. Perfect.

Alfred set the soldier down, then got a good look at him. He had messy straw colored hair, a firm jaw, and enormous eyebrows that resembled large furry caterpillars.

Using a bucket of water, Alfred washed the wounds and rewrapped them with a horse blanket he ripped apart.

There, that would be good enough until he woke up. But what about _after_ he woke up?

In all fairness, this man was their enemy. Taking a length of rope, Alfred tied the man's hands together, then his feet. Another horse blanket was thrown over him, then the padlock to the stall of hay was locked.

_Oh God._ Alfred thought to himself as he left. _What have I gotten myself onto?_

* * *

**A/N: **Well? What'd ya think? Please review and tell me what you think. Or else face the wrath of Russia. Kolkolkol...

And yes, Madeline is Fem!Canada. More characters to come next chapter. Au revoir, mes beautés!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you to Canadian Hero, IggyUnicornSparkles (love your name), Dolly-Doll-Face, and Sora Resi for their reviews. Dolly-Doll-Face: Yea, infidelity is bad. But it'll be important for what I have planned in a few chapters. I didn't mean to sadden your soul, and I'm sorry for doing so.

So anyways, here's a nice dose of Franada fluff to start you off for the evening.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

By invitation of Madeline, Francis sat in a chair, trying to engage in conversation.

"Il doit être import-" Francis caught himself, quickly switching to English. "My apologies, I sometimes don't realize which language I should be speaking." He let out a soft chuckle in embarrassment.

"Aucune raison de s'excuser." Madeline said politely.

Francis' sapphire blue eyes widened considerably with interest, staring straight into the beautiful soft violet of Mrs. Jones'. "Vous parlez français?"

The young woman smiled softly. "Oui."

"Ah, such a beautiful language. It warms my heart to meet another who speaks it." The captain practically purred, leaning closer to Madeline, her cheeks dusted with a soft rose. It was almost like a magnetic pull, drawing them together.

She felt herself leaning in as well, trying to keep the conversation going, but finding it difficult when they were that close to each other, breath mingling from their open mouths. "It, it, it's a lovely language. My mother was French, and she insisted I learn."

Francis tilted his head just so, and now their lips were so close they could feel the warmth from each other. Eyes were locked, a mutual look of desire between them. Lips were a hair's width apart, almost brushing, when it all stopped with the icy shock of realization; in an instant, Madeline seemed to remember who she was and what she was doing, pulling away quickly.

Francis cleared his throat quietly, if only to fill the void of the silence. "My apologies, Madeleine. I should not have allowed that get out of hand." The Frenchman looked shamefully at his hat in his lap.

"No, no, it was my fault entirely." She said in reply.

An awkward stretch of silence followed.

Alfred returned a few minutes later, both of them happy for someone else to speak to. However, it had the opposite effect and only made every glance in each others direction horribly uncomfortable.

Nearly an hour was filled with conversation between the French captain and his host, the hostess knitting silently while listening to the exchange.

When Toris alerted them that dinner was ready, Alfred, who was never one to be late for the young chef, Feliciano's, cooking, jumped up with enthusiasm, bidding his wife and guest to "Hurry up before the crows get it!"

Needless to say, Mr. Jones was a hungry young man. On their way out of the parlor, Madeline and Francis began the short dance that one does when one is trying to pass through a door at the same time as another, both being too polite to leave ahead of the other.

In the end, it was the Frenchman who stepped back to allow her to pass. He swept into a deep bow, right arm across the front of his waist and left across the back.

"Madame Jones." He uttered with a glance up to her face.

"Why, thank you, Capitaine." She replied with a brief curtsy.

Dinner was served in the dining room, Toris standing a few feet behind his master at the head of the table, should he be needed. On Alfred's right sat their esteemed guest, on the left the lady of the house.

"So, Francis," Alfred said after the food had been served. As much as he would like to enjoy his food in silence, there were important matters that he needed to attend to. "Have you heard when that Spanish trading company will be arriving?"

The Frenchman swallowed his bite of food before answering. "Oui. In one week's time, one of their best men, an old friend of mine, will arrive. Once he confirms the arrangements in person, he will send for the money." He allowed a light smile to pass over his face. "I believe you'll like Antonio. He's rather like yourself." Francis thought it was best to leave it at that.

* * *

From the kitchen, a curious pair of amber eyes peeked past the door.

"Feliciano!" A voice hissed from behind him. Spinning around, the boy spotted his older brother coming in through the back door with a stack of cut logs, piling them next to the stove.

"Lovino!" Feli exclaimed. "I'm sorry! Please don't hit me!"

Lovino rolled his hazel eyes. "Damn it, Feli, I'm not going to hit you. What are you looking at, anyways?"

A smile spread itself on Feliciano's face. "Mr. Jones has someone over! He talks funny, and he's wearing a uniform!"

Nudging his brother out of the way, Lovino peeked through the gap between the door and frame. He took in the scene in the dining room, then turned back to Feliciano. "He's that French bastard Toris was talking about." He explained in as patient a voice as he could manage.

When the meal was over, Francis was escorted to his room by Toris. Madeline retired for the evening, claiming to be tired. But Alfred had business still on the lower level of the manor.

It wasn't often the kitchen had a visit from the master of the house, but the staff were to act with utmost respect when their employer was in their presence. At least they were told to, anyways. Lovino really thought the whole "attitude" thing was more of a suggestion than a requirement. Thus, when Alfred entered the kitchen and little Feliciano stood with his hands at his sides and a smile on his face, the older brother merely straightened his back slightly from where he lent against the wall.

"Lovino?" Alfred addressed. The Italian arched an eyebrow in question. "I would like you to stay out of the stables until further notice."

"And why would that be, sir?" Lovino replied in an unamused tone.

"Because I told you to. I want you to do whatever Toris or Elizabeta need done when you are finished attending to the other animals. Is that clear?"

"Crystal." The brunette said with a forced smile.

* * *

Elizabeta closed the door of the guest room behind her, spotting Toris down the hallway with a rather tall blond gentleman in a military uniform. So this was the Frenchman they had been vaguely told about.

The way he carried himself, confident, a slight air of arrogance. Almost like... _No!_ She pushed the thought away. She promised herself she would get over him. Elizabeta found her mind drifting to him more and more lately. Anyways, there was work to be done. She still had another room to clean, and Madeline would be expecting her soon.

It really was better not to let herself think about the past. The past could never be changed, and stolen kisses in the moonlight and a familiar mischievous smirk were best left where they were.

At least that's what she told herself.

* * *

A beam of fierce morning sunlight trickled between the planks of the stable, landing directly in Arthur's eyes in that annoying way that beams of light so enjoy. His semi-awake mind decided to do what it would normally do if Arthur was in his bed at his parents' home: use an arm to shield his face from the blinding light. This proved to be a problem, what with both of his arms bound tightly behind his back, thus the reason for the uncomfortable sleeping position he had noticed vaguely before.

Arthur's arms tried to jerk forward, awakening him from his slumber. His eyes scanned the wooden building he was imprisoned in, taking in the hay beneath him and the coarse blanket across his body. His feet were similarly tied together. He sat up quickly,wincing at the sharp pain in his side.

Looking into the protective barrier of his dirty scarlet coat, he saw what appeared to be a torn blanket acting as a bandage, stained with dried blood.

Where was he? Who had dressed his wounds? And better yet, why was he tied up? The last thing Arthur remembered was the battle, being shot.

Horses could be heard snuffling their noses, birds outside tweeting in the first moments of the day.

A soft chuckle came from just outside of Arthur's prison, and he let out a hissing groan in another attempt to move again. "Who's there?" The Brit asked, hearing a moment of silence in reply.

The door to the padlocked area opened, revealing a tall blond man holding a bowl, spoon, bucket of water, and a roll of linen.

"Oh." The newcomer said. "You're awake. That's good. I think."

* * *

**Translations:**  
Il doit être import(ant)- It must be important  
Aucune raison de s'excuser- No reason to apologize  
Vous parlez français?- You speak French?  
Oui- Yes  
Capitaine- captain

* * *

**A/N: **And that, children, is known as subplot. It screws over readers and excites readers.

Review and tell me what you think, 10th reviewer gets a one-shot.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thank you to Sora Resi, GogofishKt, and Redwhale6 for the reviews. They're like a hug from the internet.

Thank you to Greece, for being the first of my cosplay friends to read one of my fanfics, and then threatening me if I didn't update soon. France gives you love.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

When Madeline was woken up by Elizebeta, she tried to recall the dream she had. It was one of those dreams that are wonderful and make your sleep perfect, but upon awakening, you find you can't remember any of it. Just that it was good.

In no time, she was dressed and having her ash blond hair brushed.

"Elizabeta?" She asked, a thought creeping up on her.

"Yes, miss?" The Hungarian replied, not stopping the rhythm of the hair brush.

"Ha- have you ever been in love?"

"I was married, yes." Elizabeta managed to stop her voice from cracking.

"But did you love him?" The young blond persisted, feeling the brushing stop.

The maid sighed, looking at her hands and starting to pin up Madeline's hair. "I learned to care for him, but no. I never loved him."

A heavy silence descended upon them, broken by small words in a gentle voice. "I'm sorry."

Those words brought the slightest bit of a smile to Elizabeta's face. "Thank you, miss. That means a lot to me."

* * *

Arthur's eyes widened. "Who are you? Where am I?"

Alfred squatted down next to the soldier, pulling at the bloodied bandages. "Jones. Alfred Jones. And this is my stable."

The Brit sucked in a breath as the horse blanket was pulled away from the wound on his side, but continued to let the Colonist tend to him. "May I ask what I'm doing here?"

Alfred stopped his work, looking right into the green eyes. "Healing."

Arthur desperately wanted to ram the palm of his hand against his own forehead. "Yes, I got that. But why the bloody hell am I in a stable, and why am I tied up?"

With a shrug, Alfred completely pulled the scraps away from Arthur's torso, revealing a slim, if not leanly muscled, body that didn't squirm, instead allowing itself to be tended to. "You're tied up because I didn't know when you would wake up, or what you would do. You're in the stable so that no one would find you."

Arthur's eyebrows nearly met, his face the picture of confusion. "Why wouldn't you want anyone to find me?" He asked suspiciously.

"Because you're not exactly welcome by anyone here right now."

Something clicked in the Redcoat's mind, and he began to struggle. "You! You're a Re- Reb-!"

Alfred moved back a bit, allowing Arthur the distance he seemed to crave. "Rebel? Actually, I prefer Patriot. A rebel is one who fights against their ruler. A patriot is one who fights for their country. It's also got a more heroic feel."

Arthur managed to wedge his body in the corner, as far from his savior as he could get. "Whatever you want for ransom, yo-"

"Whoa, wait. Who said anything about ransom? Is this how you treat everyone who tries to help you? Face it, you're to weak to move until that wound heals, and you have nowhere to go."

That was true. Arthur was lucky to be alive, and he needed help. Pride would do him no good, because he needed help no matter how much he tried to deny it.

"Now, if you want some breakfast, I'll bring you some. But I need your word that you won't yell or try to escape. I've got some er, friends that might not be too happy to see you."

Arthur didn't want to agree. He want to spew curses and wrestle this man to the ground and get the hell out of there. But he couldn't. And so he bit his tongue.

"Fine. I promise." He spat bitterly in surrender.

* * *

Allistor took a heavy drink of whiskey from his flask, then replaced the cigar to its rightful place between his lips. It was nice to spend part of the evening relaxing, if only for a little while.

The soldiers under his command were getting restless. They had been marching for four days straight, hadn't seen a single Rebel, and then came the worst part; news was coming of British defeats. They were just small skirmishes, hardly worth worrying about, but there were rumors of the French aiding the Colonists.

And Allistor really didn't want to have those damned frogs in his way later.

He sighed with content and leaned back on his seat atop a few supply crates, just letting his eyes close and the tension unwind from his neck...

... To be interrupted by a young voice. "Major Allistor Kirkland?"

Eyes shot open, and a boy, probably around 16, stood with a letter in his hands in front of a thin horse.

"What th' bleedin' hell do ye want?" Allistor demanded, upset at his loss of free time. He took another gulp from his flask.

The boy quickly saluted. "I'm to report to you that your younger brother has gone missing in the line of duty, and is suspected dead." He began to pry at the wax seal of the envelope.

Allistor nearly choked on the alcohol in his mouth. "Dylan?!"

The boy shook his head and tried pulling at the edges of the wax with his fingernails. "No sir, your other younger brother."

Allistor nearly dropped his cigar, worry digging further into the center of his chest. "No. Not Peter. He was just going to town." He whispered.

The boy's brow furrowed and started to peel the seal off. "No sir, your _other _younger brother."

"Seamus? But he's in camp. Ah saw him just an hour ago."

The young messenger clawed at the wax, pulling it to no avail. "No, sir. Your other younger brother. I can't recall his name, but it's on this letter."

Allistor took the document, breaking the seal with ease and shaming the messenger, who's job it was to transport letters and information.

The major scanned over the brief message, rolling his eyes and sighing with irritation when he found the name.

He refolded the letter and stuck it in his coat.

Allistor left the boy and horse, searching for Seamus' tent.

He pushed the flap open, finding his brother reading a book, and handed him the letter.

Seamus took it without a word, shaking his head slowly as he read. "Damn." He muttered under his breath. "Did you know he joined?" He asked his older brother, green eyes meeting green eyes.

Allistor had his fingers laced together behind his head, which he shook in reply.

Seamus handed him back the letter and returned to his reading. "Peter's been getting letters from Ma. He might know something about it."

"Thanks. I'll ask him if I see him."

He didn't see Peter around the camp, and returned to his own tent for the evening.

The Irishwoman inside didn't notice him enter the structure or come up behind her, at least not until his arms closed around her waist, effectively hugging her from behind.

She yelped in response and he released her, laughing.

"Allistor!" Carlin Kirkland exclaimed, slapping her husband lightly on the upper arm. Only a moment later, her hands flew to her rounded stomach, a grin appearing.

"What? What is it?" He asked with concern in his voice.

In reply, his hand was taken and moved to replace the smaller ones.

"Do you feel it?" Carlin whispered. "He's kicking."

"Yea." Allistor nodded slowly and the movements against his calloused fingers, a careful smile lighting up his face and pride swelling in his chest. "I feel him."

"He's strong." The pregnant woman commented. "Like his father."

"I just hope he doesn't get my grandfather's eyebrows."

Carlin laughed. "Like Arthur." She added.

"Oh, that reminds me." Allistor suddenly said. "I got a letter saying that the little rat went missing in battle and is probably dead."

"I didn't know he enlisted."

"Neither did I. Or Seamus, for that matter." They chuckled together for a moment, just enjoying each other and the unborn infant between them. They were filled with a warm feeling, flooding through them and caressing them.

* * *

Without the stables to take care of, Lovino's chores were cut in half. Thus, he was given the tasks that Elizabeta had on some list she had long since forgotten about, things Toris fell asleep cursing himself for not getting to.

Like scrubbing the inside of the fireplaces, dusting the chandelier, or what he was doing now, polishing the wooden staircase rail. And of course, how could Toris not remind him that he needed to make sure to get the out facing side that was twelve feet off the first level and no one ever looked at closely enough to notice whether or not it was polished in the first place.

His feet scooted nimbly on the very edge, his own lazy grip and perfect balance alone stopping him from plummeting.

He was so bitter in his mutterings about how unfair it was that he wasn't to work in the stables that he didn't notice the doors to the outside world open behind him. He just kept scrubbing, then he bumped his toe sideways between the elegantly carved sections of the upper railing piece.

Then there was only fear and empty air.

* * *

Antonio Fernández Carriedo was always lucky. He was always in the right place at the right time, avoiding risks and receiving rewards. But he didn't realize how fortunate he was. Being lucky just came naturally to him.

Naturally, while doing a delivery for his father, he had been offered a job as an apprentice for a merchant. He traveled all across the Mediterranean, meeting his two best friends, who he kept in touch with.

Naturally, the childless, unmarried merchant died only a few years later, and Antonio took over the company. Naturally, that was just before his newly acquired ship and warehouse full of fine lumber would have been purchased by a large Portuguese trading company.

Naturally, a mistranslation of his Spanish made the man he was dealing with believe that his "I'm not sure if I should be selling it." meant Antonio wanted more money.

And naturally, the young man was given nearly twice the original offer.

Naturally, for succeeding in such an impressive business venture, he was offered a role with one of the largest Spanish trading companies that frequented the Caribbean.

Naturally, of course, his luck got better. He was sent as a business representative to the British colonies, finalizing a deal for his employer. Naturally, the trip faced only good conditions and he arrived four days ahead of schedule. Naturally, his journey north and east had been even better, giving him a full week early.

When he found Mr. Jones' property, his horse easily trotted up the path to the manor.

It was a lovely home. The mare beneath him rode on carefully, despite the lack of attention her rider was paying. He slowed her in front of the doors, tying her reins to one of the wooden pillars that supported the shelter in front of the door.

He knocked lightly and opened the doors to the grand home and stepped inside. Looking around, he only saw a servant polishing the staircase railing in a rather dangerous fashion.

He shrugged. It was none of his business how the boy cleaned. Coming closer, Antonio saw that he was older than he seemed at first glance. More of a young man than a boy, really.

Soft swears in Italian could be heard under the servant's breath, sending strange shivers up the Spaniard's spine.

Something on the floor caught his eye, quite close to directly under the servant's place above. Antonio picked it up and examined it. It was a small white flower. He stroked his thumb over the silky petals.

A gasp alerted him from his daydreaming, and he looked up in time to see the Italian slip. Dashing forward with his arms out, Antonio caught him from out of the air.

There was a moment of silence after the impact, and Antonio cradled the young man to his chest.

Naturally, Lovino got out of his arms as fast as possible and slapped him across the face while screaming angry Italian curses.

* * *

**A/N: **Well, here it is, you crazies! Hahaha, I said that as though I myself am sane.

Reviews feed plot bunnies, and plot bunnies have babies. And babies grow up into accountants and electricians, among other things.

Still a one-shot for my 10th reviewer, and we're getting close. The end is nigh.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** **Hey there, hey there, you, hey there. How are you doing? What is up? Chowder...**

**"staring at the door that had just banged Oprah." Best spellcheck moment ever.**

**I am so freaking sorry about the wait, but I had to deal with relatives and couldn't access the internet. I also had to pack everything I own, because my mom and dad are moving withing two weeks of each other. But I got an iPhone from my mom, and I can work on new chapters while I'm at my dad's! I also had my birthday on December 23rd, the worst possible birthday in existence. Yay! I got to be in a play for Drama Club, and I was asked to beta a one-shot. Knowing my ability to prioritize, I should be done in the next year or so.**

**Thank you to Sora Resi, sunheart of rushclan, MssCassandra, and that lovely anonymous guest for reviews. You made my day!**

**The winner of the one-shot is MssCassandra! You go, MssCassandra! I'll have it up soon. I hope you like Franada and the Grimm Brothers' Tales.**

**I dedicate this chapter to a friend of a friend, who took his own life recently. May he live in our hearts, now and forever.**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Antonio watched the young man in front of him yelling in Italian, not even bothering to try to translate it in his mind. Soft looking brown hair was swept away from the servant's forehead, one stubborn curl sticking up despite the sweat that kept the rest of it at bay.

But that _face_! Red with anger, hazel eyes wide with rage. It was so incredibly, so entirely, so very, very,

"Cute."

The curses and insults stopped, the vermilion fading into a brilliant, livid white. "What did you say bastard?" The voice was calm, controlled. As though he really wasn't sure what the mysterious Spaniard had said.

"I said you're cute." Antonio began to smile, a carefree display of contentment. "You look like a tomate."

Have you ever heard of the still before the storm? Right before the rain and lightening begin, the air just stops, almost like the Earth is taking a breath before all hell breaks loose.

Lovino's still lasted for a few moments of utter silence, but that time was long enough for Toris to come and check on him, read the atmosphere of the room, and immediately move to restrain his arms before said arms started to swing at their visitor.

Toris whispered quickly into his ear, warnings of why his temper must be controlled, how important the man he wanted to physically strangle was. Eventually, Lovino submitted to reason, turning and stomping to go sulk over his wounded pride.

Antonio watched with slight concern as this went down, wondering why this little tomato was so upset.

"Is he alright?" Antonio asked the rumpled butler.

"Hm? Oh, yes. He just needs a moment. Lovino probably just got upset about something." Toris brushed the thought aside. "Where are my manners? Welcome to the Jones estate, Mr. Carriedo. Mr. Jones is in his study, if you'll allow me to show you there."

_Lovino... Lovino... Lovino..._ Antonio rolled the name over his tongue repeatedly in wonder of it as he followed Toris upstairs, his hand running over the stinging red spot on his cheek where he had been slapped.

When they arrived at oak double doors, Toris rapped on it with his knuckles. There was no reply.

Toris knocked again, brow furrowing. "Sir?"

* * *

Alfred peeked his head into the kitchen, making sure the coast was clear before he opened the back door and stepped in.

The pantry was unlocked, luckily, and Alfred grabbed some food, just an apple and a loaf of bread, before closing the pantry and returning to the stable.

He opened the stall Arthur was in, finding the still shirtless Redcoat waiting.

Realizing Arthur couldn't eat in his current condition, he (begrudgingly) untied the bonds on his wrists and settled himself against the stall door.

Arthur ate it quickly, having gone well over a day since eating last, and when he was done, had his hands retied.

Alfred turned to leave, and Arthur couldn't stop himself from speaking.

"Alfred?" The Colonist stopped, but didn't turn around. Arthur tried not to let his voice waver. "Thank you."

Alfred left the stable, and Arthur was once again alone.

He sighed at the pattern that his life seemed to revolve around.

He regarded the military coat that was keeping him warm, remembering how he had come by it.

* * *

He had always been his mother's favorite, something his older brothers detested him for. When Peter was born, he thought it would be different, he being an older brother, one to join in on the cruel teasing. But instead, he now had another boy in the house that plotted against him. Even worse, Peter was Mum's new favorite because of Arthur's dislike of the younger boy.

When Arthur was ten, his oldest brother, Allistor, had reached the required age and enlisted in the army, earning himself greatness.

The next year, Seamus reached the required age, closely following his brother in rank with his incredible skill for strategic planning.

Three years after that, Dylan turned 16, but didn't go into the army. He joined another military branch instead, becoming the youngest commander in the navy.

Their father died just after his third son left. Naturally, it had fallen to Arthur to take care of his newly widowed mother, who insisted she was fine when her three oldest returned home for the funeral, as well as Allistor's wedding to a young Irishwoman. Who also hated Arthur.

Peter joined the army the second he could, sending his meager earnings home to his mother. This left Arthur alone with his mother.

He was regarded as lazy, 24 and living with his mother while his brothers became heroes.

When he heard of the rebellion starting to succeed, he took it as a sign. So he left his mother, joined the army, and got shot on the battle field a month after arriving in the colonies.

Thus was the misfortune of Arthur Kirkland's life.

* * *

Madaline tried to keep her focus on the garden, avoiding her own thoughts. She had had a wondrous night, head filled with thoughts of the Frenchman that had set her heart pounding so.

Elizabeta noticed her vacancy, the way violet eyes ghosted over the flowers and trees without actually seeing.

"Something on your mind, miss?" The maid asked. But Elizabeta knew the answer to the question. The way Madeline kept twisting her fingers into the fabric of her dress skirt, the way she flushed light pink at the question.

Madeline took a deep breath, clasping her hands together in front of her, focusing on the wedding ring that adorned her left ring finger. "It's nothing. Just a silly thought."

Elizabeta nodded, but knew.

Madeline was in love.

* * *

"Fratello, I don't understand. What happened?" Feliciano asked as he and Lovino prepared lunch, the elder brother kneading the bread dough with far more force than necessary. Feli was happy he hadn't asked him to chop vegetables, as knives are rather hazardous in the hands of the enraged.

So far, all he had been able to understand was some rather creative cursing and some rude things about the Spanish that an author would rather not put in a story, as that would be horribly unkind to say.

Lovino spun around angrily, blush consuming his cheeks. "Damn it, Feli!" He yelled. "Why can't you just mind your own damn business?"

Feli cowered against the counter, releasing the knife in his hand. Seeing this, his brother ran his flour-coated hands across his temples, sighing as he did so. "I'm sorry, Feli. I just had something happen earlier, and I shouldn't take it out on you."

The effect was immediate, the younger Italian perking up with a smile. Lovino rolled his eyes, but managed to produce a small smile for his brother.

They both returned to their work, albeit a bit more gently than before.

"Fratello?" Feli asked cautiously.

Lovino sighed loudly. "What, Feli?"

"Why do you hate the Spanish so much?"

Lovino's eyes widened in shock, but tried to stay calm. "Wha-what do you mean?"

"You were saying something mean things about them." Realization washed over Feliciano, his face lighting up with glee. "Oh! Did you meet someone new today? Someone Spanish?"

Lovino grit his teeth at his brother's enthusiasm. "Just that merchant that we were supposed to prepare for. The one who arrived a week before he was supposed to be here." He slammed the dough heavily onto the wooden table, producing a loud _thump!_

"Do you like him?" Feliciano asked, voice innocent.

"No! He's an idiot, way too damn happy for his own good, and he seems to be obsessed with pomodori!"

"He sounds like you."

Lovino could only stare in wonder, finally finding his voice and whispering a "What?"

Feli's smile only broadened. "You like tomatoes too!" He played back the last bit of the conversation in his head, quickly finding the reason for his brother's gobsmackery. "Oh no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that you were an idiot or that you were too happy, because really you're not very happy at all. But I'm not saying that you're mean, but sometimes you can get a little upset, like right no-" But Feli was cut off, both brothers staring at the door to the dining room that had just banged open.

An agitated Toris entered, the marks of anxiety all too clear on his usually calm face. "Have either of you two seen Master Jones?" He demanded of them in an almost pleading manner.

They both shook their heads 'no', causing the head of staff to bite his lower lip.

"I honestly don't know where else to look. I've managed to leave Mr. Carriedo in the parlor, but I can feel his growing impatience. We just need some way to distract him, perhaps make it up to him a bit." Scanning the room, green eyes lit up when they stopped on Lovino. "I have an idea."

Understanding his meaning, the Italian stood up straghter from his slouched position with protest written across his features. "No. No, no no, a million times no."

"Please, Lovino?" Toris pleaded. "You don't have many permenant duties right now, I'll even have the animals taken care of. And I'll see about a pay raise for you."

Raising one eyebrow, Lovino thought over the offer. He would get out of feeding pigs and milking the cow, plus whatever pointless chores he could be assigned. And they _did_ need the money...

Gritting his teeth, he spat out a sour "Fine."

Toris let out a sigh of relief. He knew it would be easy to keep his end of the bargain.

For although the master was the head of the house, you could expect his butler to be the brain; hidden, all-knowing, and _really_ making the decisions.

* * *

**Translations:**

tomate- tomato

pomodori- tomatoes

* * *

**A/N:** **A look into Arthur's life, hmm. Wasn't sure about posting that so soon, but it helped set the writer's block on theoretical fire. And fire is fun, kids! And what of Toris' plot, hmm? Tune in next week, because the writer's block is dead!**

**By the way, that part about fire was a joke. Be safe around fire, and do not set them. No matter how much that horrible girl at school who tripped you is asking for it.**

**A one-shot gift for the 20th reviewer. I should really stop promising people things, because it is a quite direct pain in the arse. But I've managed to write a few whilst in my writer's-coma. I'll save those for later...**


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